


Slippery When Wet

by prettyboyporter



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Physical Therapy, Post-Season/Series 02, Swimmer!Steve AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 06:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21221861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter
Summary: Owens’s voice fades out as Billy repeats the movements he’s seen Owens perform so many times over the last several weeks. Billy’s grateful that memory takes over because his hands are now on Steve’s skin, and Steve is so malleable -- just letting Billy move him and position him, rotate his body, set him how Billy needs him.He pictures doing this in bed -- Billy lying on his back, pulling Steve’s knees to the outside of his hips, skin bare, so Steve can get the anglejust right.





	1. Hawkins: Oct 84-Feb 85

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynn76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynn76/gifts).

> This is my harringrove for RAICES fic, written for my donor, lynn76. I truly hope you enjoy this, lynn. <3

Billy tips back on the office chair’s back legs and his head lolls backward. The hallway behind him flips upside-down as he looks through the office window while his father fills out paperwork at the front counter. 

This particular view of this shithole school somehow feels like an appropriate metaphor for the fucked up direction of his life for the last two months. He sees a few students stroll through the front doors and linger in front of their beige lockers.

Beige lockers. A color as flat and lifeless as the pervasive smell of manure and expanses of brown fields of Hawkins. Billy’s gone from neon lights and blue ocean waves to endless brown and beige as if any trace of color had been physically sucked from this godforsaken land, all joy removed, leached down through the earth by generations of boring famers living small, dull lives. 

Billy wonders if he were to take a shovel to one of those fields and start digging, if he’d find some hidden well of color swirling under the earth’s crust. Pools of pink and orange and turquoise right under this feet where he could _swim_.

“Put that chair on the floor.” Neil’s voice is flat, and his fingers tighten on the pen he’s holding. 

Billy slams his chair to the ground. He turns back around to see three girls gather in front of an open locker. One of them checks the feather of her brown hair in her locker mirror and catches his gaze. 

She snaps her gum and smiles, lips shining with dark pink lip gloss. There’s a bright red comb sticking out of her back pocket. Her jeans hug the swell of her ass. 

This is a good a place as any to start. Billy figures now’s the time to act, to play the role he’s spent years perfecting -- the idiot, the poor player full of sound and fury. He slides his aviators down and licks his bottom lip. 

Neil knocks his shoe against the side of Billy’s boot. His finger comes up and looms in front of Billy’s face -- a move as familiar as the ringed smack of his hand. As his fist slamming into Billy’s stomach. “You’re to focus on schoolwork here. Not on any of these local hussies. Am I clear?” 

“Yes sir.” Billy replies. He bites back on the anger and sarcasm that bubble up, swallows it all down -- right now’s not the time or the place to do this. Taking it silently means that Neil will lower his finger, and that’s exactly what happens. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a boy with a lot of floppy brown hair in a pair of khakis approach the group of girls. They mill around him -- bees around a jar of honey. His smile is easy and sweet. 

Lips plush and pink. 

He’s wearing a _Hawkins Varsity Swim Team_ sweatshirt. The girl who smiled at Billy now touches the guy’s polo collar poking out from under the sweatshirt, smoothes it down as he grins approvingly at her. She hands him an orange flyer. 

“They got a swim team,” Billy says. Maybe to Neil -- maybe just to the universe since Neil won’t fucking care anyway. “I’m good in the water. Maybe I should give it a shot.” 

Neil turns to the secretary. “Do you have football here?” 

“Yes we do. It’s our most popular sport,” she says from behind her square gold-rimmed glasses. “But coach isn’t adding any new players to the roster. Been full since summer.”

“Basketball?” Neil smiles and shifts forward with a small, smooth play of his lips, one that he reserves for charming women like this secretary. Women like Susan. 

Neil’s full of sound and fury too -- must be fucking genetic.

She smiles back. Of course she smiles back. “Yes sir. Billy can talk to Coach Chase if he’s interested.” 

“Thank you,” Neil says -- caresses the pen before laying it down on the counter. He turns to Billy, and Billy returns to eyeing this guy out in the hallway. 

The gum-snapping girl’s friend walks over into the guy’s personal space and smiles up at him -- a smile all sugar. 

But the guy steps back. A polite step, not too far, but the message is clear. 

Neil steps in front of Billy’s view of the hallway. “You’ll join the basketball team. You’ll watch out for your sister and earn good grades. Be respectful to your teachers. And take those sunglasses off of your face when someone is speaking to you.” 

Billy wants to roll his eyes and tell Neil to fuck off -- but Neil’s jaw twitches. Billy snaps his mouth shut and looks off blankly over Neil’s shoulder. He takes off his sunglasses. “Yes sir.” 

**~*~**

He looks over his schedule and the classes listed are a fucking _cakewalk_. Not being challenged in class usually leads to boredom, and bored Billy will likely mean hell for everyone involved -- classmates, teachers, even the janitor -- so Billy makes a mental note to grab a few books to stash in his locker. A copy of _Carrie_ hidden inside of a textbook might keep him from going down a path which starts with being tossed out of class and ends with ring-shaped bruises that he has to explain to teachers and counselors. 

Hawkins High is a third of the size of his school in San Diego. With only four hallways on the first level and one hallway upstairs, he can figure out his classrooms at a glance. 

Over the top of his schedule, the light pink jacket of the gum-snapping girl appears. “Hey,” she says, hugging her folders to her chest. “I’m Tina. You just starting today?” 

Billy snaps on the wolfish smile -- the one that says _I wanna see your tits under the bleachers_. The one he’s practiced in the mirror for _hours_. That smile has fooled a multitude of girls, and that same smile would never, _ever_ lead them to think that if they pried deeply enough, if they pulled him apart layer by layer, they could lift the sub-basement doors to find a boy who looks too long at broad shoulders. A boy who daydreams about how another’s stubble would sound rasping against the palm of his hand. They might find how he strokes himself in the silence of three in the morning, jamming his own fingers into his mouth, sucking. _Longing_ for it. 

So he smiles and looks down at her with half-lidded eyes. “Tina.” He licks his lips. “I’m Billy Hargrove.” He reaches out to shake her hand and a smile appears on her glossy lips. “I’m feelin a little lost here. Can you help me find Econ?” 

“Of course.” She falls in beside him and leads him down the hall. “I’m having a Halloween party tomorrow night. You should come. Probably too short notice for a costume, so you don’t have to dress up or anything if you don’t want to. For everyone else? Costumes are mandatory.” When they arrive in front of his class, she hands him an orange flyer that says **Tina’s Halloween Bash** with a drawing of a ghost with a bottle of booze and her address. She leans in and whispers, “I’ve already got the keg in the basement. Maybe you could help me carry it up tomorrow?” 

Billy places his hand on the beige locker next to Tina’s head and leans down. She smells like Aqua-Net and Baby Soft. He touches the edge of her folder. “Wouldn’t miss it for nothin’. Thanks, Tina.” 

He lets his gaze slide down to her lips, then saunters into the classroom and doesn’t look back at her. 

_A tale told by an idiot._

**~*~**

A few pumps of hairspray, the correct earring, no shirt, leather jacket, and fingerless gloves. If people squint, they _might_ be able to tell that he’s supposed to be the Terminator. 

Apparently that’s all it takes to become Hawkins’ new King -- good looks and a belly full of beer. He’s got a house full of people chanting his name, a kid named Tommy all over him and maybe he feels something besides simmering, seething anger. Maybe he feels less like he wants punch his way through corn stalks and hightail it back to the ocean at this moment.

With beer and spit dripping down his chin, he winds through the crowd of dancing teenagers and tries to grab dangling toilet paper to wipe it off, and that’s when Billy sees him.

The guy who was wearing the Swim Team sweatshirt -- _Harrington_. Billy’s heard his name in whispers and gossip over the last few days -- from those whose words are laced with both desire and with jealousy because _King Steve has a prissy bitch girlfriend_. 

If their contempt is for Harrington or his princess girlfriend or for both, Billy honestly can’t tell. 

He feels a sudden need to be up in this guy’s _face_ and beelines to him -- to his brown hair cascading up and down as perfectly as some of the waves Billy surfed in San Diego and to his beaming smile and Ray-Bans which he tugs off when Billy stalks up to him. 

He regards Billy with wide brown eyes while his date dashes off. 

Tommy goads Harrington but Billy simply _wants_, though he’s not quite sure if he wants to shove Harrington into the closest bedroom and drop to his knees or wants to punch him in that stupid perfect face. Harrington looks like Tom Cruise mixed with Sodapop Curtis from _The Outsiders_ but with a swimmer’s body -- wide shoulders. Long torso. Billy wishes he could see what Harrington fucking _looks like_ in a Speedo, what he’s hiding under that blazer and t-shirt. 

What it might be like to ruck that black t-shirt up and see what shade of brown Harrington’s nipples are. 

He _refuses_ to look down though. He keeps his eyes fixed on Harrington’s face. 

Harrington’s eyes are dark brown -- the color of a Hershey’s kiss and suddenly Billy feels _a lot less_ animosity toward the color brown. He looks at Harrington’s hair flopping down on his forehead and wonders what it looks like all wet and dripping from the pool. The tips of his fingers twitch. He still won’t break eye contact, though. He stares. Tries to intimidate. 

For ten whole seconds Harrington returns Billy’s gaze before he shoves off and goes after his date. 

She starts to make love to the punch bowl and an hour later ends up _sloppy_ drunk in the bathroom. Harrington looks _done_ with the entire thing when he later shoves his way past everyone and out the front door. 

By himself. 

Billy smiles as he watches from behind his red Solo cup. 

That blazing eye contact from Harrington, brief as it was, felt like the first real thing he’s felt in this hick town and he’s ready for _more_. 

Tommy slaps Billy’s shoulder -- hangs off of him all night. The music might be shitty, but Billy gives in anyway and dances in the overly-crowded living room. He leans in to the tight press of bodies. 

The pressure of a back to his back or an arm around his waist isn’t what he _needs_, but that’s something that he rarely gets. What he needs is to be touched -- he longs for it, thinks about it in class when he’s learning about similes and metaphors, shit he learned in sixth grade, so he tunes it out and his mind wanders to the phantom feeling of hands caressing his skin. Of lips pressed to his jaw. 

He’s fucking _thirsty_ for it. 

So he plays his part and takes what he can get -- takes a hand that’s too small trying to cop a feel of his abs, not giving enough pressure, and when he slides his eyes shut, he imagines a different hand on him with long fingers pressing down into Billy’s jeans, cupping and squeezing, and waves of brown hair. 

**~*~**

It’s that magical time of the school day when Billy can duck his head under a shower -- the piping hot steam so _soothing_ after going hard at basketball. He’s standing next to Harrington. It seems as though while no one here can keep up with Billy on the basketball court, no one can keep up with Harrington in the pool, either -- both of them leave everyone else in the dust.

Billy silently thanks the coaches for coordinating the swimming and basketball practices to end at the same time today. Harrington has two classes with Billy and always sits toward the back of the classroom, always three or four rows over. There’s no way for Billy to interact and he can only ask Harrington for a pen so many times -- which he hands over and promptly returns to ignoring Billy. 

So Billy’s grateful for moments like this where he can push and posture. Try to get this guy to even _look_ at Billy. He looks over at Harrington and keeps his chin tilted up high because he’d looked at first and caught a glimpse of wide shoulders and a long, muscled back with a pair of matching dimples right his ass. He prays that he’s not overcorrecting. 

So he focuses on Harrington’s face - and if he’s focusing too hard, then so be it. Better than looking _down_ again.

“How were your strokes today, merman? You good at stroking?” 

Tommy cackles, and Harrington dutifully ignores Billy just like he has been all day, all fucking pissy that the Wheeler bitch apparently dumped him on Saturday. He soaps his hair up and it sticks up like a rooster’s mane covered in foam and it’s painfully fucking _cute_. 

“Too bad the princess wasn’t there to watch your swim practice today, Steve. She’s too busy running off with the freak’s brother,” Tommy says. Seems like he’s lighting at this chance -- Billy’s teasing opening the door for this guy to finally get one up on Harrington. That kind of does annoy the fuck out of Billy. He feels a little possessive of this moment and shoots Tommy the stink eye. “You break up for one day and she’s off with Byers? _And_ you fucked up your time today? Hard week, man.” 

Harrington ignores that, too. His brown eyes sadly glance over at Tommy, who wanders off after he catches the look on Billy’s face, then looks down at his own hands. Poor guy looks like someone kicked his puppy. 

“Don’t take it too hard, man,” Billy says. “Plenty of bitches in the sea.” He reaches over and turns off Harrington’s water and slaps his shoulder with a satisfying _thwack_. His fingers are _tingling_ where they touched Harrington’s skin. He wishes he could have the context of laying a soft hand on Harrington’s shoulder -- but the slap is what Billy will have to settle for. “I’ll be sure to leave you some.” 

Billy stalks off and feels Harrington’s eyes on his back and the hiss of water starting again. 

Maybe, Billy thinks, he’ll head up to the swim meet tonight. 

**~*~**

Seems like Harrington left his relationship drama at the natatorium’s doors because he is _on fire_ that night. 

His times are impeccable -- no one comes _close_ to him in the water. He’s focused and poised, and he makes swimming look like fucking _art_. Hands slicing the water, lips parted for a breath. His trademark long, thick hair is tucked up under a swim cap, but that just leaves Billy to focus on Harrington’s lean, muscular body and little moles that Billy would love to run his fingers along in some secluded room. He wonders what Harrington would look like on his stomach, looking back at Billy while Billy ghosts his fingers over those little brown spots. 

Billy’s never been much of an artist. He tried, once, not long after his mom left and a kinda cool former hippie art teacher at Billy’s middle school took Billy under his wing, let him draw and paint and never asked Billy _do you wanna talk about it?_ \-- because that would just lead to Billy saying _fuck off_, but.

But Billy _wishes_ he could, now. He wishes Neil had never thrown out his watercolor pencils after Billy had gotten suspended for telling Mr. Ortega to mind his fucking business. Because if he had them, he’d draw it. He’d draw king Steve swimming with a fucking crown on his head. 

He watches from the top row in the bleachers, black jacket, black jeans -- just trying to stay hidden. Harrington emerges from the pool and looks at his results, hands on his hips. Chest heaving with exertion, blue Speedo doing _nothing_ to conceal the outline of one massive dick lying to the right. 

Billy thinks about it later that night in his bed. He licks his lips and chases the sensation -- rolls a finger over his nipple while traces a finger down the length of his dick, teasing himself. Fantasizes about swimming with Harrington in an empty natatorium and he’s all revved up from winning, pushing Billy against the side of the pool wall and _grinding_ his dick against Billy’s thigh. 

He rubs his palm down his thigh and goosebumps follow.

Billy jerks himself, comes quietly, feeling like he’s coming _forever_, imagines what his jizz would look like on Harrington’s Speedo. 

He should leave this alone. He really should. 

**~*~**

It’s December and the Hawkins Tigers basketball team is playing a contentious game in the division semifinals. By halftime, Billy’s only gotten one foul despite running his mouth at any opponent in earshot, has scored sixteen points, and spots Harrington in the stands six minutes into the game. 

Billy drives _harder_ to the net after seeing Harrington -- defends more ferociously, all _over_ his guy then steals the ball from that fucker and takes back down for a pretty little finger roll into the basket. Coach Chase is shouting Billy’s name, pumping his fists from the sidelines. Crown Point rallies, though. They get hot on a scoring streak, then fucking Tommy fouls and Crown Point scores two because of Tommy’s dumb ass and are up by three at the half. 

Coach shouts at them, bawls out Thompson and Tommy, praises Billy. Billy fixates on the coach’s tie, on the echo of the cheerleaders’ music reverberating in the wide gymnasium, on the chatter of the crowd, but somehow he can _feel_ Harrington’s eyes on him. 

He slides his eyes closed and pictures that stupid fucking Members Only jacket and imagines the smell of Polo wafting out from under it -- indulges in a scene where Harrington gets Billy alone under the bleachers after the game and touches the hem of Billy’s shorts, reaches up inside the leghole, sucks on Billy’s neck, and _strokes_. 

The whistle blows. Billy snaps out of it and uses that image as a driving force for the second half. Crown Point’s got the ball and they keep it at their end, slowing the play way down. Minutes tick by and Hawkins can’t seem to catch a rhythm, can’t keep the ball, and Crown Point controls the tempo. Tommy ends up with the ball but when he drives to the basket he misses his shot, and Crown Point catches the rebound. 

Four minutes in and they’re still controlling the speed and momentum, though they haven’t actually _scored_ yet -- still only up by three. The crowd seems too quiet, like a _nervous_ quiet, but then Billy intercepts as one player passes to another without spotting Billy, and he drives back to the Hawkins side, too quick for these fucking farmboys and there’s not one soul in front of him. He stops at the three-point line. One giant kid catches up with him though and gets in his face, gangly arms everywhere, but Billy gets his balance, tucks his elbow and goes up for a jump shot. 

He nails the three-pointer -- game tied.

The Hawkins crowd erupts and Billy hears it, _YEAH HARGROVE_, and that’s _Harrington’s_ voice cheering for him. 

For Crown Point, there is just no coming back. The momentum swings to Hawkins and stays there. Crown Point seems demoralized and lethargic, and Billy’s whooping and theatrics keeps his team energized and dominating. They pull forward to dominate Crown Point from there on out and win the game 53-42. 

Kids pour down from the stands to swarm the Hawkins team, and the first person to reach Billy is Harrington. 

Billy’s already smirking, ready to say _you hicks make this shit all too easy, fuckin slow rural asses too tired from plowing the fields_, but Harrington jogs right past Billy. 

Right past Billy and slaps fucking _Tommy_ on the shoulder. Tommy made this giant dumb foul, yet he still gets Harrington’s, “nice goddamn comeback. You guys look sad for a minute there.” Tommy, who nearly lost the game in the first fucking place, is getting the praise. The same guy who burst through the tiniest crack in the wall to help knock Steve down less than two months ago.

Billy bites the inside of his cheek, inhales deeply and exhales slowly through his nose while he looks down at the toes of his sneakers. 

Sanderson comes up and shoves Billy’s shoulder, says, “you were a fuckin _monster_ out there dude, they couldn’t keep up with your bad ass!” Billy smiles at Sanderson -- a lanky nerd-ish guy with a good heart -- when a voice catches his attention from the side. 

“Hey Hargrove.” Harrington says. 

Billy looks slowly from Sanderson over to Harrington, who’s now turned away from Tommy to face Billy. 

“Nice three-pointer. _This_ idiot right here owes you for that,” Harrington shoves gently at the side of Tommy’s head, who replies with a _fuck off Steve_.

Sanderson walks off to talk to another teammate and Harrington approaches. “You’re good, Hargrove.” He says it quietly. Like a conspirator. Like it’s a deep secret. “I mean that.” 

Billy fixes Steve with his best icy glare. Tilts his chin up a bit, held high by pride. He slides his tongue out and licks his bottom lip. 

Harrington’s eyes drop down and follow the movement.

Billy turns and walks away, fire burning low and hot in his gut. 

On the bus ride home, he looks aimlessly out the window and isn’t daydreaming about his three-pointer, or the comeback win, or who they’ll be playing in the finals.

He sees Harrington’s eyes looking down at Billy’s mouth. 

**~*~**

At the end of February, winter decides to fuck off for an afternoon as the sun unleashes unseasonable warmth on Hawkins. It hangs high in a bright blue cloudless sky, and Billy finds that it’s even too hot for his hoodie. He strips it off and tosses it aside on the concrete. 

The warmth is like a beacon call for a pick-up game. They don’t even coordinate it -- ten boys find that it wasn’t cold as fuck outside and make their way to the court behind the school, and a small crowd gathers to watch. Even Harrington takes a break from his merman duties to join their game. 

Billy jostles back against Harrington, and Harrington’s long arms seem to be all over Billy. He hogs the ball for a bit just to get Harrington’s chest shoving against his back, gets Harrington’s fingertips on his left hip. He smiles back over his shoulder, says, “Pretty king merman outta the water to ball with us plebs? Aren’t we fuckin lucky.” 

But Harrington reaches in and steals the ball right from Billy’s hands, drives up to the rim for a layup, and scores. 

“Sorry, you were saying, Hargrove? Some bullshit about a pretty merman?” Harrington’s hair sticks to his forehead in a thin sheen of sweat and he grins, hands on his hips, breathing hard. 

Billy stalks forward and is about to hurl a taunt -- the tone friendly now as opposed to a month ago, when words edged with Neil-fueled anger led to fists being thrown -- when they’re interrupted by a loud _AH FUCKING SHIT_. 

Tommy’s lying on his side on the concrete, clutching his knee up toward his chest. “My fucking _ankle_!” 

“The fuck did you do?” Billy asks as he jogs over and kneels in front of Tommy. 

“I don’t know man. There was some uneven pavement on the court. Didn’t see it and rolled my ankle. _Shit_.” 

Billy sighs and looks at Sanderson, who’s standing next to them. “Kneel down, Sanderson. Tommy, put your foot up on his knee. I’ll be back. Fucking idiot.”

He sprints over to the Camaro and digs under the passenger seat for the first aid kit that’s been refilled _at least_ twenty times. 

On the way back, he swings by the spectators and snatches a McDonald’s soda cup that out of the hands of some kid who’s in his Econ class. “Hey!” the kid shouts. 

Billy flips the kid off and gets Sanderson out of the way. He rips open an aspirin packet and hands them and the Coke over to Tommy. 

“It’ll help with the swelling,” Billy says as he pulls the ACE bandage out of the kit, sets Tommy’s foot back up on his knee, and starts wrapping up Tommy’s ankle. 

Tommy slurps noisily on the nearly-empty soda. 

Billy snatches the cup back. “Asshole. Jesus.” He strips off his t-shirt, holds it open, and pours the contents into it. The bit of soda left spills onto the concrete, and Billy twists the shirt into a knot to form a little bundle of ice. He presses it over the bandage, on top of Tommy’s rapidly swelling ankle. 

“Thanks,” Tommy says quietly, his grin small and embarrassed. He takes the ice pack-shirt from Billy’s hands. 

“Yeah well. Harrington was killing us out there and your dumb ass destroyed any chance of a comeback. You owe me a six pack, Hagan.”

“Whatever,” Tommy says. He shifts the ice pack on his ankle. “You goin to Rita’s winter bash tonight?”

Billy rolls the basketball under Tommy’s ankle, sets it down gently on top of the ball, and stands up. He hadn’t been planning on going. These high school keggers have quickly lost their appeal with graduation in a few months and the chance to _leave_ this shithole looming close. Billy’s grades are phenomenal and he’s got a folder with acceptance letters and scholarship offers from a variety of places -- he just hasn’t gotten around to making that decision _quite_ yet. He’s been waiting for the right shitty day to come along so he can have this nugget of hope in front of him. “Not sure. But _you_ sure as fuck shouldn’t go. Stay off that fuckin ankle, dipshit. Rest it, put ice on it, keep it elevated, and take some more aspirin in a few hours.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You’re worse than Carol. How’d you get so good at doing this kinda shit anyway?” 

The first time was when he was twelve, running away from Neil, falling sideways when his sneaker met a crack in the concrete. The second was when Neil shoved Billy off the porch when he was fourteen. The third was when he was drunk, thinking about his mom, and just stumbled on a rock like a fucking idiot. More recently, it was when he fell awkwardly trying to escape the house in the middle of the night after Neil kicked him in the ribs and the pain of it made Billy’s feet unsteady on the dirt underneath him. “Practice makes perfect.” He lights up a cigarette, exhales, and points it down at Tommy. “Stay off that fucking ankle man. Give it a rest tonight. I’m serious.” 

He turns and starts to walk away -- it’s only when Harrington approaches with Billy’s hoodie clutched in his hands that Billy realized that he’s _cold_ now. It might be warm today, but it’s still February in Hawkins. Billy takes it and slips it on as Harrington says, “not going to Rita’s tonight?” 

Billy narrows his eyes. Harrington’s hair flops in the breeze, and the sun catches it. Bits of dark blonde come through in the chestnut brown locks. Harrington wraps his arms around himself. 

Billy kind of wants to tug Harrington flush -- pull him close and share their body heat. “Got an essay to finish. I think I’ll sit this one out.” 

“Oh yeah, shit. For Carson, right?” 

“Yeah. On _Gatsby_.” 

Harrington shifts his weight and rubs the back of his neck. “Think you could maybe come over tonight and help me with it? I’m just lost, y'know? Make it worth your while, I promise. Pizza and beer.” 

Billy steps closer and Harringtons tenses up a bit. There’s still an edginess to their interactions after that fight last month. It was a dumb fight over misunderstandings about Max and her tribe of nerds, what they fuck they were up to and why Harrington was with them. Harrington threw a few punches and so did Billy, and ultimately, Billy backed off and drove around for two hours with his windows rolled down even with the negative temperatures until he cooled off. Now that he knows, though, he wishes he could go back and erase the entire thing. “Okay. See you at eight, merman.” 

“Awesome. Great.” Harrington bounces twice on the balls of his feet. “See you then.” 

Billy watches as Harrington walks over to Rita on the sideline. Her face falls, but she reaches up to pat his cheek. 

Harrington and homework, alone, with pizza and beer. Billy keeps his smile small and secret. 

**~*~**

Their knees touch five times that night. 

_Five_. 

Billy sits in Health on Monday and remembers the last one, when Steve’s knees fell open on the sofa and his left knee touched Billy’s right and _didn’t move_. 

Billy’s dick was fucking _sore_ on Sunday from how much he’d jerked it to that memory on Saturday night. 

“Hargrove.” Coach Chase’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Heard what you did for Hagan on Saturday.” He tugs off the baseball cap from his head -- his serious business move. “Acting that fast with that much knowledge of treating an injury --- ever thought about going into sports therapy?” 

Billy hadn’t -- not until now, at least. “No sir.”

“As good as your grades are and with your knowledge of sports, seems like a natural fit for you. I mean, you could definitely work on being more empathetic toward others in distress, but still, with your grades and talent, you should go for it. Indiana University has a great Sports Therapy program. Think about it. I’d be glad to write you a letter of recommendation.” 

He thinks about working on others, wrapping up Tommy and Max a million times and himself as well -- about learning the ins and outs of injuries and helping to rehabilitate. He thinks about his twelve-year-old self wrapping up his own ankle. It feels like a thousand locks start opening up in his brain -- everything singing that yeah this is absolutely _correct_ and one hundred percent, this is what he wants to do. “Yeah. You know what? I wanna fucking do this. Go ahead and write the letter, sir. Thank you.” 

“No problem. See me in my office tomorrow and I’ll give it to you. You’ll do good work, kid. I have no doubt.” 

Neil’s never said that to him. No one has. He chokes back tears and says, “Thank you.”

Later that day, after practice, Harrington is in the showers with the basketball team again. “You got _what_ now?” Tommy asks Harrington. 

“I told you four fucking times already Tommy, jesus. Full ride scholarship for swimming to Indiana University.” 

“That’s so goddamn cool!” Tommy grins. Billy rolls his eyes at this fucking bandwagon asshole. “Proud of you, dude.” 

“Thanks!” Harrington seems genuinely pleased and turns to Billy. “Know where you’re going yet, Hargrove?” 

Billy had dropped off a packet that that morning at the post office, confirming his admittance and accepting a scholarship offer. The first line of the letter to Billy had said, _Welcome, Hoosier, Class of 1989!_

“Yeah, pretty boy. I do. Indiana University.”


	2. Indiana University: Oct 85-Nov 85

Billy tugs up the hood on his hoodie and buries his fists into the pouch pocket. The autumn breeze whips cool and fierce around his head -- it picks up Max’s hair, too, as she tries to take a sip of her drink. 

“Fuck,” she mutters doward, plucking a few strands of damp hair from the cup. 

“Here,” Billy says and takes the cup from her fingers while she tugs her hair back and pulls it through a scrunchie. 

“Thanks.” She takes her cup and settles on the bench they’d picked in the middle of campus, just outside of the student center where Billy bought himself a coffee and Max a hot cocoa. 

“So what are your classes like?” Max asks. “Are they hard?” 

“Yep. They make Kaminsky’s chem tests look like a fucking coloring book.” Billy looks over at her, red-nosed on this crisp October afternoon. It’d been a long day of toting her around campus for Sibling Day at IU, and she was fucking _thrilled_ when he rolled his eyes and told her that she could stay the night in his dorm room if she wanted. “But I study a lot, so my grades are decent. So far, at least, I haven’t managed to fuck anything up, so.” 

She pauses and sips her cocoa. “So why did you pick sports therapy as your major? I mean, you could have gone pre-med. You could be a doctor. You’re pretty goddamn smart.”

“I _am_ going to be a doctor, dipshit. A doctor of physical therapy.” 

Max sighs deeply and turns to face him on the bench, her face not really kid-like anymore. Her features have lost some of that softness from childhood, and Billy thinks that she _kind of_ looks like a woman now. And now suddenly she’s _acting_ like an adult, too. Billy wonders when the fuck all of this happened. She’s wearing the Hoosiers sweatshirt that he bought for her at the bookstore and he’s gotta admit that Hoosier crimson looks cute on her. “Why wouldn’t you want to be a doctor? Like a _doctor_ doctor in an office or a hospital?” 

Billy turns to her. “Remember that time you jammed your wrist after you slipped off your skateboard in front of the house?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Who helped you wrap up that wrist?” 

“You did.”

“And when you rolled your ankle after you jumped off the railing outside the library? And when you fucked up your left shoulder skateboarding off the stairs outside of the courthouse?” 

“Okay _okay_ I get it. But still, why couldn’t you do that stuff as someone’s family doctor?” 

Billy has had this question asked of him several times before, and the edge of irritation that comes with it lessens with every asking. “Because I wanna help people -- specifically, athletes -- with the shit their bodies go through, y'know? Help them strengthen and recover and all that type of stuff. See them through their injuries. I like sports, and I feel like I can _help_ in that area. I don’t wanna get sneezed on by little brats in some fuckin clinic.” 

She huffs a laugh. “Okay, okay, fine. I get it.” She gets quiet then. Wisps of her hair break loose from her scrunchie and fly forward in the breeze -- he can still see the expression on her face. Mouth downturned. A little frown between her eyebrows. She plays with the edge of her cup. “I -- I think my mom’s gonna divorce Neil. Kick him out of the house.” 

Billy reaches out and lays his hand on her wrist. His anger vibrates through him -- makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “Has he touched you? I swear to god if he’s laid one fucking _finger_-” 

“No, no he hasn’t but.” Her voice chokes up, and Billy lets go of her wrist so she can wipe at her face. “But he yells at Mom all the time, and I think she’s sick of it. I think she’s done with his shit. She’s gonna kick him out of the house next weekend. She told me to expect it.” 

“Want me to come home for a bit? I could commute for a few days. Come back and help around the house, make sure he doesn’t pull some bullshit on you or Susan.” Dozens of different images flash through his mind like a slides on a carousel of how poorly Neil could react to this news.

“Nah, you don’t have to. We’ll be fine. Hopper said he’s gonna drive by a few times that weekend just to make sure.” She smiles a little and lowers her voice. “But if Neil even tries to come near me, I’ll kick him in the balls.” 

Billy laughs at that and drags a hand down over her face playfully. “Good girl.” 

“I just thought you might wanna know that he’ll probably be gone soon.” She looks over at Billy, her blue eyes searching his face. “Now that you’re here, I bet it’s good to be away from him.” 

Billy recalls looking out the Camaro’s window up at Neil as he stood on the porch, arms crossed. The backseat of the Camaro was loaded with all of Billy’s belongings -- his room was stripped bare. Not like he had a lot of stuff to pack to begin with, and he parted ways with several items, ready to redefine himself in a dorm room. When Billy backed out of the driveway, he took one last glance at Neil, who spat down on the sidewalk and walked inside, slamming the door behind him. 

“It’s like I’m finally free, kiddo.” 

She starts singing, “_If you love someone, set them free. Free free, set them free_.” 

“Swear to god, Max, if you keep singing fucking Sting in my presence you’re headed straight back to Hawkins tonight.” 

“You’re no fun at _all_, god. Cranky old headbanger.” She crosses her arms and gasps like something suddenly occurred to her. “Hey, are you keeping in contact with Steve Harrington? He goes here!” 

There have been several weeks of observation hours with the therapeutic staff -- Billy was assigned, of course, to shadow the swim team therapists. He observed Steve being worked on during eight of those sessions, sprawled over a table. Hands moving over his skin dotted with little moles.

And now there are _study sessions_. Billy and Steve are four weeks into it, and the whole thing was all Steve’s idea. He cornered Billy outside of the natatorium and asked Billy while looking down at Billy’s shoes -- _I don’t wanna fall behind here, y’know? I coasted through high school, and now I have a scholarship. I just don’t wanna fuck this up. Think you could, I don’t know. Help me learn how to study?_ Billy could smell the chlorine on Steve’s skin -- watched the two moles on Steve’s neck. They have a Wednesday study session at the library, and as of just last week, an additional study session in Billy’s dorm on Thursday nights. 

They’ve been to three parties together.

And they’ve made eight phone calls to each other.

Not that Billy’s been counting. He bites the inside of his cheek and doesn't grin. Thank god. “Yeah, I guess I see him around sometimes.” 

“Oh. So you don’t hang out that much?” Disappointment edges her voice.

Billy shuffles his feet and his shoulders tense. “I dunno. Sometimes.” 

“Why are you getting weird?”

“I’m _not_ getting weird, shitbird. You’re getting weird.” 

She huffs a laugh. “Okay, PeeWee. _I know you are but what am I!_.” 

Of course, as if summoned from thin air, Steve comes jogging up to their bench, hair still damp from practice. “Hey Max! Heard you’d be around for Sibling’s Day!” 

She stands up and he picks her up in a hug. “We were just talking about you!” 

“Oh yeah? Don’t believe one goddamn word.” Steve glance overtop of Max’s head at Billy as he still has her in an embrace. 

This time, Billy leans in to the nervous twist in his stomach -- and when he feels Steve’s eyes on him, Billy doesn’t drop Steve’s gaze. 

**~*~**

The alarm clock on Billy’s nightstand reads 2:12 a.m., and Steve and Billy sit on Billy’s dorm room floor, Steve cross legged and Billy with legs stretched out. 

Billy leans back against his bed frame. The floor around them is a mess of textbooks, handouts, post-it notes, highlighters, and pens. He stretches, then rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. Bright white dots flash behind his eyelids. They’ve been at this for _hours_. 

Steve falls quiet next to him. He starts writing furiously in his notebook. The last hours have been filled with Billy pouring over Orwell’s narrative essays with Steve, highlighting sections, showing him how to make annotations with the endgame of Steve writing his own narrative essay for his composition class. Judging by the ferocity with which Steve’s pen is moving, Billy thinks inspiration must’ve struck. 

Billy tries to focus for a few minutes on his anatomy text. He jots down a few notes. 

But Steve’s knee is kind of lying on top of Billy’s thigh and he can feel the heat of Steve’s body through his thin sweatpants. 

Steve uncrosses his legs though and moves _closer_. The words in Billy’s textbook start to blur. He reads the same sentence eight fucking times and it still makes no sense because Steve’s entire _leg_ is pressed to his and the only thing that exists are the points of pressure from thigh to ankle. 

He waits until Steve’s written halfway down the second page before he asks, “What event did you pick to write about, pretty boy?” 

Steve sits up straight and pulls back his notebook just out of Billy’s eyesight. His eyes go wide. “Nothing. I mean, it’s no big deal.” 

“Cmon then. Lemme see then if it’s no big deal.” Billy jams his shoulder to Steve’s and peeps over toward the tilted notebook. He spies the words _Billy_ and _phone call_ on the page. “Is that my name?” Billy asks. 

And when he looks up, his face is inches from Steve’s. 

Steve’s brown eyes fall to Billy’s lips. 

“Why’s my name on your paper, Stevie?” 

Several beats of silence pass.

Steve slowly sets his notebook on the floor next to him. “Because you’re my important moment.” 

Steve leans forward, into Billy’s space, when the dorm room door flies open. Billy’s roommate Ned stumbles in and howls. “Billiard, you missed _quite_ the fucking rager, my dude. Can’t believe you stayed in on a Saturday to study. God. So lame.” He flops down face-first on his bed and giggles. 

Steve pulls back with a little sad smile and starts to pick up his papers -- tucks them away in his backpack and moves toward the door. “I’m gonna go finish this up back at mine. I’ll call you tomorrow though. Wanna get lunch at my cafeteria?” 

“Yeah. Sounds good.” 

Steve gives a small wave as Billy starts to stand. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he jams them in his pockets. “Seeya,” Steve says, and quietly opens and closes the door.

Billy looks at Ned, already snoring face-first into his pillow, and contemplates murder. 

**~*~**

“Harrington is being overtrained,” Billy states to Dr. Owens, his assigned PT supervisor. They’ve been working together since Billy started in August. Billy watches as Steve jumps up out of the pool after practicing the butterfly stroke. 

It’s a notoriously difficult stroke -- and an exhausting one. And of course, because Steve can execute it so well, the coaches have him practice the butterfly _constantly_. Steve’s often tired during their study sessions. Lately, Billy’s noticed Steve wincing when lifting his arm, and he knew he’d have to say something.

“Yeah?” Doc Owens doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “And how do you know that, Hargrove?” 

“Because his form is a little different. His time is like, just a _little_ off. And -- he’s showing distress, sometimes, when he lifts his arm.” 

Now _that_ makes Doc Owens look up from his clipboard. “Distress? What kind of distress?” 

Billy puffs a breath. “Ah, when he takes off or pulls on his jacket, he winces when he raises up his right arm.” 

Doc regards him for a second. “How often has this happened?” He turns to Billy with his pencil at the ready to take notes. “And tell me what it looks like.” 

“He gets this little pinched look on his face. His eyebrows crinkle up and like his mouth twists a bit. I saw it last night when he left my dorm room. This afternoon when we ate lunch. The night before when he tugged off his sweatshirt at his place -- he said the heater was too fucking hot in his dorms and it irritates the shit out of him -- well that really dosn’t matter.” Billy pauses as Doc scribbles some notes. “And Saturday night when we were leaving a party. _Oh_, yeah -- it happened one more time that same day when we went to see _Mad Max_ and he took off his jacket, and again when he put it back on.” 

Doc Owens stops writing and cocks an eyebrow at Billy. “Huh.”

“What?”

“It’s just that I didn’t realize you were so friendly with Harrington.” 

Three months into shadowing Doc Owens and it seems like this guy can see right _through_ Billy. It’s really uncanny the shit Owens has been able to decipher about Billy’s life and who he is as a person, but something about Owens’ demeanor _invites_ it. Like Billy doesn’t mind at all quietly admitting some of the truths behind his previous injuries -- how he’d treated himself after a particular shove or punch or kick from Neil. 

Owens takes it all in stride. Doesn’t really judge or make lengthy commentaries -- he’s never condescending or judgmental, just says _yet somehow you made it to IU and into this program, still, and we’re all the better for it -- now wind that bandage tighter, Hargrove, or else that practice dummy might not be so glad that you made it out of Hawkins. Cmon, didn’t I teach you anything in September?_

Billy shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah. We’re close, I guess.” 

Owens stays quiet for two seconds -- two seconds that broadcast that Owens _knows_ there’s more hiding under the surface and that Owens also knows that Billy knows and honestly it’s a giant fucking circle that makes Billy’s head hurt. “We gotta get him on the table then.” He turns toward the poolside and hollers. “Hey RANDOLPH. C’mere for a second. We got a problem.” 

One of the couches peels off from the poolside and jogs over to Owens. “Yeah?”

“Notice anything about Harrington the last few days?”

Randolph scratches up under his hat. “Time’s been off a little bit. I figure it’s just butterfly fatigue since we just started training him heavily on it last week. Why?” 

“Ya gotta stop.”

“Excuse me?”

“He needs a break. He’s getting swimmer’s shoulder.” 

“You sure?”

“Sure as the snow in December. We’ll do an assessment, of course, but the signs are all there.”

Randolph puffs a breath. “Fine. He’s yours. Send him back as soon as he’s ready, alright? Kid’s an artist with that stroke.” He blows his whistle once -- a short shrill sound. “Harrington! Over here.” 

Steve pads over, arms crossed. Billy’s eyes drop down over Steve’s body once -- strong shoulders narrowing down to a trim waist, long torso dotted in little moles. Lean muscles flex as he moves. 

Billy looks down at the toes of his shoes, feeling awkward and self-conscious of where his eyes are falling. 

“Got some pain in that shoulder, Harrington?” Randolph asks. 

Steve pulls off his swimming cap -- and winces when he lifts his arm to do it. “Yeah, a bit. Why?” 

“Gotta sideline you for a bit. You’ll be working with Dr. Owens here until it’s healed up. Can’t have you in competitions screwing it up even more. I’m glad he caught it when he did.” 

“Yeah, it’s been bugging me for a few days now. I dunno -- just thought it would go away.” Steve turns to face Owens. “Thanks, Dr. Owens.” 

Owens looks down at his clipboard again, attention as good as gone. “Don’t thank me. Thank Hargrove. Seems like he’s watching you like a hawk. See you in the treatment room.” He walks off with Randolph. 

Steve steps in close to Billy. Water thumps on Billy’s shoes from Steve’s body, but Billy couldn’t fucking care less. “Thanks, Billy,” Steve says. 

His breath fans over Billy’s neck before he steps away.

**~*~**

The echoey sounds of the vast natatorium, piercing whistles and sharp splashes all seem miles away from the treatment room. It’s actually just a hundred feet, but the sounds are all cut off and the space seems tighter. Quieter. The air is closer and voices soft.

More intimate. 

Billy does what he’s been doing for weeks now -- hovering a couple of feet behind Doc Owens, watching silently, taking notes as the doc works on his patient. Occasionally Owens might ask questions, but right now he just seems intent and focused. 

He’s got Steve on his stomach on the therapy table, holding his right arm off of the side. “See Hargrove -- this is what I was describing last week. You have to take his scapula and -- well. C’mere. You give it a shot.”

Billy looks at where Owens has Steve’s arm held against his stomach and starts to step back. Three minutes ago if one had asked Billy this procedure, he’d be able to recite it step by step forward and backward and name every muscle and bone associated with the treatment. 

Suddenly he can’t remember his own fucking _name_. 

“C’mon Hargrove. Don’t get shy.” Owens steps to the side and offers Steve’s wrist to Billy like some fucking _gift_. “I know you know this. Harrington, you okay with Hargrove practicing on you?” 

Steve blinks up at Billy with wide brown eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.” 

Billy slides in and lightly presses his hip to Steve’s side. He picks up Steve’s wrist and positions Steve’s arm as he needs it. 

“_That’s_ it, Hargrove. See? You know what you’re doing. Now don’t forget what we talked about with stabilization.” 

Owens’s voice fades out as Billy repeats the movements he’s seen Owens perform so many times over the last several weeks. Billy’s grateful that memory takes over because his hands are now on Steve’s skin, and Steve is so malleable -- just letting Billy move him and position him, rotate his body, set him how Billy needs him. 

He pictures doing this in bed -- Billy lying on his back, pulling Steve’s knee to the outside of his hip, skin bare, so Steve can get the angle _just right_. 

And now Billy feels his dick stirring in his shorts. 

Now that he’s seemed to have won Doc Owens’s favor, popping a boner while working on Steve Harrington in front of the doctor is the _last fucking thing_ he needs in his life. 

He inhales and exhales slowly and pictures Archie Bunker and Ed Asner. Archie Bunker and Ed Asner. 

That seems to do the trick and he counts this as a victory as he finishes up Steve’s shoulder _without_ poking Steve with a hardon. 

“Nicely done, Hargrove.” Owens steps forward and starts to explain to Steve his therapy schedule, and turns around just as he’s about to walk out the door. “Hargrove, show him how to use the hydrotherapy pool before you leave, okay? It’s already heated and I added the salts a half hour ago.” 

“Yes sir,” Billy says. It’s a knee jerk response from which he’s tried to break free. Billy’s not overly thrilled about the ghost of Neil Hargrove falling from his mouth. He can see the look on Owens’s face, the one that _knows_ and looks just the slightest bit sad. Billy thinks about the doc’s smartass sense of humor and gentle encouragement. He pulls back on the _yes sir_ and adds, “Yeah. Sure thing doc.” 

And _that_ makes Owens smile and slip out the door. 

Leaving Billy alone with Steve. 

**~*~**

The only sounds, a half hour later, are the gentle hum of the tub and the soft splash of moving water between them. 

Billy sits across from Steve. The tub is _small_, but Steve insists that Billy join him -- the tub is big enough for two, Steve claims -- and so here Billy is. Anticipation eats away at his gut. He stretches his neck, tilting his head from shoulder to shoulder and taps his fingers on the side of the tub. 

_Anything_ to cut into the electricity bouncing between his nerves. 

Every time he looks up, Steve’s regarding him. Looking the necklace on Billy’s chest. Sliding closer. Watching Billy with half-lidded eyes. 

Billy feels that the culmination is near -- a crescendo of moments, a cacophony of memories sometimes sweet and melodic and sometimes angry and discordant merging together to make a sound somehow beautiful and pleasant. The whisper of Steve’s voice on the phone in the middle of the night mixed with the shouts of their fight last January -- fists smacking against skin, and the memory of Billy jeering _King Steve_ pooled with that of Steve’s laughter from last Saturday -- pitched low and quiet -- so close to Billy’s face that he could feel it on his cheek. 

And when Billy leans forward to take the kiss that’s been waiting for him on Steve’s lips, he figures if this is a discordant syncopation doesn’t work here with Steve, he can always play it flat and boring in San Diego. 

But when Steve’s lips meet Billy’s, eager and pliant, Billy _knows_.

He feels it in the curl of his toes, in the way that Steve inhales sharply. 

The little _mm_ that Steve makes when Billy’s tongue touches his. 

He knows now that he can drop the charade -- no more poor player, no more idiot full of sound and fury. When he cups Steve’s jaw in his hand, he feels everything wash away and he’s here now, only with Steve, only with Steve’s lips on his neck, Steve’s mouth, greedy, insatiable. 

Only with Steve’s _wanna go back to my room? My roommate’s gone for the weekend_. 

On the walk back to Steve’s dorm, Billy takes Steve’s hand in his own, and first snow begins falling. “Snow already? It’s not even December yet,” Billy says. 

“Ground’s too warm. It’s not gonna stick.” Steve looks up and several fat flakes fall into the waves of his brown hair. “Pretty though.” 

“Yeah.” Billy lifts Steve’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “Yeah it is.”

**~*~**

Billy turns to watch Steve’s silhouette in the darkness of Steve’s dorm room. On the other side of the door is the muffled sound of music down the hall and random howling shouts of drunken students breaking free from the stresses of their studies. Steve locks the door behind him and touches the lightswitch. “Uhm, do you want it on or off?” 

Billy _vibrates_ with nervous energy and every ounce of him wants to say _off_ just so he can hide how awkward he feels in his own skin, because this is new, boys are new to him, he’s wanted and wanted and wanted but. 

But. There’s the way Steve is looking at him -- even in the dark, Billy can see it. Steve’s gaze drops down Billy’s body and his jeans are just loose enough to show off the hard line of his dick, and Billy finds the word just escaping from his lips -- _on_. 

Steve flicks the switch on and steps forward then, three steps and he backs Billy up to the bed. Billy’s calves hit Steve’s bedframe and he flops down on his ass, spreads his knees apart as Steve steps between them. “I’ve wanted this for a year now,” Steve says as he pushes Billy’s button-down off of his shoulders while dipping down to kiss Billy’s lips. 

Billy curls his fingers around Steve’s thighs, slides them up to unzip Steve’s jeans and tug them down. His mind reels a bit because he’s on Steve’s bed, Steve Harrington’s dick bobbing in front of him, and Billy slides his hands up the plane of Steve’s stomach, muscles there tighten in anticipation as Steve’s dick touches Billy’s lips, and Steve tugs his shirt up over his head, pooled down onto the floor. 

Billy stretches his mouth around Steve’s dick as far as he can take it, savoring the ache in his jaw and rubbing himself through his jeans before Steve steps back and reclaims Billy’s mouth, his fingers fumbling at Billy’s fly. 

And Billy honestly feels that he’d follow Steve _anywhere_ at this point -- he followed him to IU, would follow him to Morroco or Saskatchewan or fucking Anarctica if it meant feeling more of this. _San Diego_, Billy thinks when Steve gets his mouth on Billy’s dick, _maybe we can go to San Diego someday_, but Billy honestly doesn’t care as long as he has this -- as long as he can feel Steve’s lubed up fingers three deep inside of him, making him see white spots, making him see _stars_. 

Steve’s knees touch Billy’s hips, just like he’d imagined earlier, as Steve lines up his dick and slides inside. Billy feels so _stretched_ that he hisses. He tries to muffle it -- the walls here are fucking _thin_ \-- but that hiss is like a displaced accent -- a stressed weak beat in their song -- but then Steve’s dick presses against his prostate and Billy grinds out, _fuck, Steve, fuck_, and Steve lifts up Billy’s ankle, says _so good, baby, you’re so good_ with a heated whisper his kisses sloppy as he thrusts and it’s _everything_ he wanted -- he feels hot and filthy and filled by Steve. 

Billy bites his lip because he’s scared of shouting the place down when he comes all over his own fingers, over his belly, shouting even louder than the party down the hall, and that’s when Steve stills and Billy can feel Steve coming, hands gripping Billy’s thighs. 

Steve’s head drops to Billy’s shoulder as he breathes deeply, and that’s when down the hall they can hear the raucous party turn up the volume on Bon Jovi and twenty drunk voices start shouting along _Whoa, OH! Livin on a prayer!_. 

Billy huffs a laugh and Steve leans down, kisses the sound from Billy’s lips. 

Steve settles behind Billy, and somewhere between Bon Jovi and Steve’s hand settling over Billy’s stomach, splaying and tracing, Billy falls asleep. 

**~*~**

The next morning, Billy wakes and Steve’s _not there_. 

Panic flashes through his chest and he thinks about how he fucked up, somehow he fucked it all up and drove Steve away and shame twists up inside his gut. 

So he sits up and starts to tug on his jeans. 

The lock on Steve’s door clicks open. “Hey,” Steve says as he bustles in the door. He’s holding a white box and precariously balancing two styrofoam cups. “Got us some donuts and coffee. I didn’t know how you take yours so.” He sets everything down on his desk and pulls out a bunch of little creamers and sugar packets from his coat pocket. 

Billy stands up and pulls Steve to him -- places a kiss on his lips. “Stevie?” 

Steve wraps his arms around Billy’s waist. “Yeah baby?” His face goes soft. 

“We got each other, and that’s a lot _for love_.” 

Steve tilts his head and laughs. “Are you seriously telling me you love me with Bon Jovi lyrics?”

“I mean, the first time you came inside of me, Bon Jovi was playing. The fuck could be more romantic, my pretty merman?” 

Steve kisses Billy’s lips. “I love you too, Billy.” 

The fresh November snow starts to fall outside. Billy sits with Steve on his bed and eats three donuts. They cuddle and talk, study for a few minutes just to make out that leads to Billy riding Steve’s dick. 

When they doze off that afternoon, Billy dreams of sounds -- the rush of the ocean and the faraway screech of gulls and Steve saying _baby_.

**Author's Note:**

> prettyboyporter on tumblr


End file.
